Modern Indian Literature, an Anthology: v3: Surveys and poems
K. M. George (ed)
George, K. M. (ed);
Modern Indian Literature, an Anthology: v3: Surveys and poems
Sahitya Akademi, 1992, 1148 pages
ISBN 8172013248, 9788172013240
topics: | poetry | india | anthology
Book Review
This politically constrained volume is a very poor reflection of poetry in India. If you come to this book unfamiliar with Indian literature - you'll end up with a thoroughly negative impression of the modern literatures of India!!
Sadly, the intention of the book is precisely to attract such readers.
However, if you don't speak all 20 languages of India :) -- 18 in the Eighth Schedule, plust Hindi and English - and are really keen to get a flavour of the literatures of India and are not going to be stopped by having to step through some execrable translations along the way, and if you're ok with a definition of "modern" that stretches to the mid-1800s --
so long as at least some voices are post 1950 - well, then this book may still do something to reveal the flavour of some Indian language literatures. Surely no other book comes anywhere close in terms of range.
For me personally, I was able to wade through about half of the poetry pages, and since I came with low expectations, and soon reduced them dramatically lower. For example, the Gujarati and Malayalam sections I found to be quite a revelation, though every poem was marred by the sudden dissonance of a phrase or more... If it wasn't for this book, names like Suresh Dalal (Gujarati) or B.B. Agarwal (Hindi), would have remained completely outside my sphere.
How to read this book: Keep expectations very very low
To begin with, the poetry is far from "modern". compiled in the 1990s, I see little need to include poets from the 1870s. Secondly, the Surveys part of the book is completely useless. I read the Assamese, Bengali and English sctions, and found little of interest. Go straight to where the meat is, though it may be a bit rancid.
So, the the poetry section disappoints completely, both in terms of selection and translation. The translations chosen (or executed for this project) are uniformly poor and unpoetic. Instead of showcasing Indian literature for the world, these translations serve the neo-colonialist position, that the best Indian literature is getting written in English, which is definitely the best section (though I wish it had omitted all those cobwebbed pre-independence authors). The English section has the merit that here we can hear the poets voice directly, without interlocutors...
Recently, the position that Indian regional writing is inferior to Indian writing in English was controversially made by Salman Rushdie in his introduction to Rushdie and West's Mirrorwork: 50 Years of Indian Writing which includes only one piece in translation (a story by Minto). In the introduction, Rushdie justifies the title "Indian writing" despite this exclusion: Prose writing — both fiction and non-fiction — created in this period by Indian writers working in English, is proving to be a stronger and more important body of work than most of what has been produced in the '16 official languages' of India, the so-called 'vernacular languages', during the same time; and, indeed, this new, and still burgeoning 'Indo-Anglian' literature represents perhaps the most valuable contribution India has yet made to the world of books.
Indeed, the naive reader, reading this selection from Sahitya Akademi, India's official literature-promotion agency, could surely reach the same conclusion. In fact, it seems that the book bends over backwards to make this claim.
However, approaching the poems with a forgiving eye towards the workmanship in the translations, one may well get a sense of a poetic spirit lurking somewhere far below the words, and a murky poetic intentionality can be sensed. Another point is that unlike in some other translations, at least the original titles of the poems are always included. The headnotes for each poem, introducing the poet, and finally the poem, are actually quite good, and would have been served very well by better translations. The editing on the whole is solid, especially given Sahitya Akademi standards.
Also, the very attempt to bring such a diverse set of poets under the same covers is quite laudable.
But it remains a fact that the main content disappoints, and disappoints badly.
Pathetic translations
To study the quality of translations, let's look at a poem from a literature that i have no knowledge of - Gujarati. consider the poem, chhello kaToro by Zaverchand Meghani (1897-1947). The translation by Shirin Kudchekar opens:
Drink up this last goblet of poison, father! Consumer of the ocean! Do not spill any as a libation!
reading this I immediately felt that the poem would have been served better if the word goblet was simply cup, (or even omitted). the reference to the ocean, and "spill as a libation" is unclear. in fact, i am not very happy with the word "libation" as a whole. nonetheless, something about this poem seemed to have power, and I found this translation elsewhere:
Even as you know the futility of your mission O Bapu Drink this last cup of poison You, who have drank oceans of poison served by the British, Do not throw away this spoonful (comment on news by hemen parekh)
by translating Bapu as "father", what disservice is being done to the poem!! though the headnote records that this poem was written at the time of Gandhi's departure to attend the Round Table at London in 1931, poetry thrives on images, and the generic "father" decimates the power of Bapu, the affectionate name for Gandhi, which literally means "father", but is clearly much more than father here.
the rest of the translation is quite unreadable. nonetheless, one can sense some of the original's power, e.g. in the last lines (I have replaced father with Bapu):
Go Bapu, tame the maddened bull Go, sprinkle water-drops on a world bent on slaughter, [the] Go, build a bridge over the seven seas.
Lighting a path through the pitch-dark forest, Stroking the mane of the fierce lion, Go ahead, it is God who is your guide, Bapu, drink up this last poison. [goblet of]
Poor selection
In addition to the poor translations, the selections themselves are rather mediocre. in other cases, even strong voices are emasculated by inept translations.
The poor quality arises at least in part because the Akademi operates under severe political constraints - it has to produce translations from all the languages of India, primarily the 22 languages listed in the eighth schedule. Some languages such as Bodo and Santhali were added to the Schedule after this book, and are not listed here.
All the major languages of India - say languages with more than 30 million speakers - have flourishing literary histories. Also, several smaller languages - e.g. Manipuri (1.5mn), Kashmiri (5.5) or Maithili (12mn), have had a long literary tradition, especially in poetry, though some of these traditions, e.g. Maithili, is more in the past than in the present.
Today, these smaller languages are increasingly challenged. For example, in Kashmiri, the main cultural group that carried the literary tradition were the Kashmiri Pandits - a Brahmin cultural elite in a largely Muslim valley. Since the expulsion of the Pandits from the valley in the 1970s, the new generation of Pandits does not learn Kashmiri in school, and literary output has died. Similarly, Maithili, spoken in Eastern Bihar, is today increasingly under the sway of Standard Hindi which is what is taught in schools. Languages such as Manipuri are increasingly fragile with the elite population using more and more English, while other cultures such as Dogri (2.5mn) is increasingly under the sway of Hindi.
However, stable literary traditions continue in the larger languages:
Hindi (400mn), Bengali (83mn), Telugu (74mn), Marathi (72), Tamil (61), Urdu
(52) Gujarati (46), Kannada (38), Malayalam (33), Oriya (33mn*), Punjabi
(29mn*). Assamese (13m) is also a strong literary tradition.
[* = these populations are those within India, not including
others who speak these languages in Pakistan, Bangladesh, Nepal, etc. ]
This volume, with its charter of devoting an equal number of pages to
every language, has to deal with this inequality of output. However, even
within these constraints, the best of any particular literature could have
been highlighted through proper translations, but this has not happened.
Another point I observed is the lack of women poets, they constitute
perhaps 5% of the poets listed.
Selections in this volume
As a case in point, we may consider the assamese section; the only poet with two poems is Devakanta Barooah, who was the president of the Indian National Congress during the emergency, and his largest claim to fame (?notoriety) is his resolute sycophancy - he is the one who said "India is Indira, Indira is India". Not that he is a bad poet; he produced a single book of 35 poems, sAgar dekhisa, which is quite well regarded. But perhaps others like Nilmani Phukan have a far stronger reputation. see Dev Kant Barua bio at facebook I laboured through the assamese sections - assamese has a strong poetry tradition. the only poet i had heard of though, nilamani phukan, was poorly translated by D.N. Bezboruah, who seems to have done most of the assamese section. For another poem by Navakanta Barua I found a somewhat more readable translation by Pradip Acharya on the web , see below) is tighter and in places clearer than that of Bezboruah - but neither manages to convey any power. As a random test, I tried searching for poems by most of the names that have more than one poem. Two poets have four poems each - Tagore and the completely unheard Madhav Borcar. Either there are too few Konkani readers, or Borcar is simply not in that class. Or is this someone who had political connections, in the late 80s Goa? Someone like faiz has only one poem. Indeed, the Urdu section deserves better treatment. The editors (presumably those who wrote the surveys) are generally academics and not noted poets themselves. Flipping through the Telugu section, I ran into this translation in rhyme: If men be weak all along How can the country be prosperous? Learning fast all the arts, Produce goods indigenous. This poem, deshabhakti, by Gurajada Apparao, may have stirred its readers in 1910, but the sentiments are surely no longer "modern" in 1992? And as % for the English rendering seems more like a schoolboy effort. It is sad when you think of political connections while reading an anthology of poetry. Sahitya Akademi - do something!!
Excerpts
Devakanta Barua b.1914 : Manorama p.449
[assamese manoramA 1945, tr. Pradip Acharya ] In your eyes the haze of dreams The immaculate shade of the moon in your face In your breath the whiff Of a tender blade of grass Who is it that put The dark moonless nightsand In your flowing black hair? In your voice the dove coos Haunting and distant The breath of early summer In your smile Makes the river surge over [?Kolong] And the hyacinths bloom. Your fingers like champak buds Your arms two lotus stems Thrilling to the loom-batten Heaving, restive like the shuttle. Bonny breasts, ruby lips Teeth like pomegranate seeds In the desert of my life, love, You are the lone stream of poesy. This otherwise competent translation is marred by the cliched "bonny breasts, ruby lips"; a web version has "soft, supple breasts" from http://www.bipuljyoti.in/poetry/devakanta.html
Navakanta Barua b.1926 : Silt p.453
[assamese palas 1954, tr. Ajit Barua]
The fire of the palAsh is now out
In the forests of sAl and satiyAn
How many dreams of past storm and invasion
have fallen --
Of them who keeps count?
The bones of my grandfather lie
On the banks of the Kolong, Kopili, Diju [no "the"]
The wild lily grows out of my grandmother’s heart.
What has the cloud said?
Give, give a little more
Give till all is given
Plant a sapling by the road, start a school,
My beloved is a wayfarer forever on the road,
Heave a sigh for him.
Let water speeding from the roof
Wash away the shells of dead spiders
Let our silt make fertile the banks of the Kolong.
In the furrows
Of our grandsons' new settlements
We shall wake,
In our fossils they will read
The comic tales of those
Who remember their past births.
In the gutters of dream-blind alleys
where we live
is their future.
[ Translated by Ajit Barua ]
link: seven poems translated by Pradip Acharya at
http://www.bipuljyoti.in/poetry/navakanta.html
Sudhindranath Datta 1901-1960: Ostrich p. 503
[bAnglA uTpAkhI (camel-bird), 1937, tr. poet] You hear me well : and yet you try To hide within the desert's fold. Here shadows shrink until they die, While dead horizons cannot hold, The quick mirage, and never near, The cruel sky is mute and blue. The hunter stalks no phantom deer; He loses all by losing you. The sands are heedless. Why run on, When tell-tale footprints point the way? Your pre-historic friends are gone, And, all alone, you stand at bay. By brooding on a broken egg You cannot hatch or make it whole: The self-consuming hunger's peg, You play in void a dual role. Become, instead, my wilful ark Upon the chartless seas of sand; For danger you may refuse to mark, Although you know the lie of land. Come let us seek a new retreat, Enclosed in thorn and scorched all through, Where water trickles, though not sweet; The earth brings forth a date or two. No wishful creeper shall I grow To keep your iron cage concealed, Nor call hucksters who would know What price your useless wings should yield. With moulted feathers I shall make A fan to suit the anchorite, But out of fibrils never rake The dust once raised by stars in flight. My apprehensions shall prevail: Your runic cry will not suborn: For you are not the nightingale Who lulls to feed on mortgaged corn. This ruin is our inheritance: A line of spendthrifts went before; They picked the pounds, and left no pence: Now both of us must pay their score. And so your self-absorption seems Inept: can blindness cheat a curse? The present is no time for dreams: By shunning me you make bad worse. Let each of us then seal a bond To serve the other's interest: You speed me to the world beyond, While I propose the human test. Sudhindranath Datta was born to an elite family (raja subodh basu mallik was his mAmA). though he did not finish his MA in English, he was for some time professor of comparative literature at Jadavpur University. His language is somewhat obscure because of the use of uncommon and obsolete words. the line from the last stanza is often quoted: অন্ধ হলে কি প্রলয় বন্ধ থাকে? "can blindness cheat a curse?" above more literally, "will apocalypse stop because one is blind?"
Samar Sen : Farewell From Heaven 504
[bAnglA swarga hote bidAy 1937, tr. Subhas Sarkar] Even now in the desert of the sky Night appears like a companionless beast, When the tramtracks end, also ends the city. The fragrance of Evening-in-Paris Faded out on the handkerchief -- O my city, my grey city Do you ever hear on the Kalighat Bridge The sound of the libertine's footsteps Do you hear the sound of time on the move? O my city, my grey city When you dance in the crowd of leering people O Urvashi for a couple of hours, purchased at ten rupees [rupees ten] then in the tumult of sarees and country wine In the heart of the s0on of Amrita, the sould-bewildered, Dances the bloodstream And on the horizon rises the burning moon O my city, my grey city
Subhas Mukhopadhyay : For a Poem 511
(bAnglA, ekTi kobitAr janya, 1967, tr. Subhas Sarkar) A poem will be written. For that The sky like the blue flame of fire Rages in anger. The wild tempest Flaps its wings in the sea, the cloud's smoky mane Loosens itself; to the call of thunder The forest stirs, the fear of a fall, To the spread of roots, endlessly propitiates, As the lightning looks back In that light, throughout the region Bhasmalochan Sees his own face on the red mirror of blood. A poem is being written. For him. A poem will be written. For that Who are those who fasten on the walls The manifesto of an unborn day? Leaving the fear of death on the hangman's nose, He marches forward, The air and the sky resound In his booming voice, On his fingertips is drawn The face of the new earth, its endless happiness and love A poem is being written for him.
In Love: Kamala Das b.1934 : p. 547
Of what does the burning mouth Of sun, burning in today's Sky remind me... oh, yes, his Mouth, and... his limbs like pale and Carnivorous plants reaching Out for me, and the sad lie Of my unending lust. Where Is room, excuse or even Need for love, for, isn't each Embrace a complete thing, a Finished jigsaw, when mouth on Mouth, I lie, ignoring my poor Moody mind, while pleasure With deliberate gaiety Trumpets harshly into the Silence of the room... At noon I watch the sleek crows flying Like poison on wings -- and at Night, from behind the Burdwan Road, the corpse-bearer's cry '_Bol Hari Bol_', a strange lacing For moonless nights, while I walk The verandah sleepless, a Million questions awake in Me, and all about him, and This skin-communicated Thing that I dare not yet in His presence call our love. #ujfr
Fragmented : Umashankar Joshi (1911-88) p.572
Gujarati chhinnabhinna chum 1956, tr. Umashankar Joshi] I am fragmented -- falling apart -- Like rhythm striving to throb in a poem without metre, Like a pattern trying to emerge upon a man's life-canvas. Like bread crumbs in several homes, not yet placed in a beggar's bowl. Who spoke? The cuckoo? This babbling of the nightingales in the groves, Nature's cultural program on the radio -- What have I to do with it? I feel like switching it off. The first days of spring came, then went. I never even knew. [...] Amid the burning scorch of May A bus rushes on the bridge. My eyes, behind dark glasses, were closed, as if in meditation. And yet the slender Sabarmati -- an innocent deer chasing the mirage of eternity -- Sends up from below its cold sharp blade Which, piercing the solid bridge, Renews me for a second with coolness Before the bus, reaching the bridge-end Falls a fresh prey to the flames of summer heat. If only this frail pulse, my heart, Could do so much. Perhaps it can; Maybe it cannot -- Day and night I am torn with pain; Struggling to reach and hold the centre, I am worn out. Wasting every breath, fragmented; I am fragmented.
Suresh Dalal : An Age-old Mountain p.576
[Gujarati, tyare paNa 1975, tr. Suresh Dalal) In my soul There is an age-old mountain Even I have not seen it. But it is there . . . and there for centuries. In my eyes There is an age-old river Even I have not seen it. But it is there . . . and there for centuries. In my feet There is an age-old tree Even I have not seen it. But it is there . . . and there for centuries. One day the mountain will collapse One night the river will be on fire In one season the tree will blossom ... Even then I may not be there to see it.
Sitanshu Yashasohandra: Drought p.579
tr. Saleep Peeradina, Jayanta Parekh, Rasik Shah and Gulam Mohammed Sheikh ... And yet -- What is thirst? As if dragged from the throat at night, it lay crumpled, a late-morning bedsheet, on dust-coated brows; thirst pushed itself into nostrils; raw thirst sat on parched lips, passed through, forcing itself deep into the gullet, then gushed from the navel... [...] A million ants from the foundations of this house will cover rooms and yawning terraces like tongues... dukAla, 1974
B.B. Agarwal : Without a Body 627
Hindi; tr. R.O. Swan and C.S. Jossan This evening when I got home a very strange thing happened nobody payed the slightest attention to me. My wife did not come and ask if I wanted tea, the children, too, stayed in the other room; the servant, with great impudence, went on sweeping the floor as if I wasn't there. Well, am I here or am I not? And then, all of a sudden, awareness mixed with astonishment. Where is my body today? I started to turn on the radio -- my hands were gone. I began to speak -- no mouth! As I tried to look -- O God! I had no eyes! I was thinking - but it seemed that my head was missing. Well then ... How did I get home? Little by little I began to understand: By mistake I had left my head in the office when I started home. My hands are still hanging from the bus-strap. My eyes -- of course, they are back in the office peering into files; my mouth is stuck to the telephone. And my feet ... there is no doubt . . . they are still standing in a queue. So that is how I got home today, without a body. The concept of a bodiless life, after all, is the essence of Indian tradition. But is the weariness which weighs down this limbless me also a part of it?
Vallathol Narayana Menon : Father and Daughter p.777
Source: Journal of South Asian Literature, Vol. 15, No. 2, MALAYALAM ANTHOLOGY: (Summer, Fall 1980), pp. 83-86
Stable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/40861163 .
Malayalam; tr. Kainkkara M. Kumara Pillai
I.
'Go, my son, Sunassepha, and find out the time
when I could see my venerable guru
and offer my obeisance;
I will wait in the shade of this ashoka tree,'
said he in words sweet and sonorous
as the boom of the big battle drums,
which rose once upon a time, breaking
the afternoon stillness of the sylvan hermitage
of Kashyapa on the slope of Mount Hemakoota.
Hardly had the visiting rishi sought the shade
of the ashoka, having dispatched his dutiful
disciple, when a little boy ran up to him
lisping in honey-sweet words,
'I will take you to my grandpa!'
Who is this winsome child that could refer
to Lord Kashyapa as his grandfather?
Could it be Jayanta? But Indra 's son should
be older; besides, it is human majesty
that is manifest in this boy.
The great sage was more inclined to fold him
instantly to his chest than to inquire
as to who he was!
Lo! The impetuous child has in a moment dragged
that liberated soul down to the earth again!
The hallowed sage bent down and gathered the child
in his powerful arms and held him close to
his heart;
On his chest with its deer-skin cross-belt,
the child beamed like a bright star in a black sky!
Softly drawing aside with one hand the thick
curly hair rippling down on his shoulders,
and still moist with the sweat of playful exertion,
the holy one pressed his long-bearded face
against the flower-soft cheek of the child!
The tender shoot of martial glory
and the hard core of spiritual glory blended
augmenting each other to make a fascinating sight!
The boy unhesitatingly rested his head on the
stranger's shoulder, as if moved by some
mysterious kinship!
Did the happy child feel as if he were being
fondled by another grandfather?
Or, maybe little children know not
the difference between grandfathers;
any gentle hand can fondle these blossoms.
May I ask in all humility, 0 great rishi
which did you find more delectable:
the heavenly bliss inherent in meditation,
or the bliss you experienced in fondling
the flower-soft body of this tender child?
The ascetic closed his eyes in the happiness
of holding the child close to his heart.
As for the boy, his eyes scoring the distance,
he suddenly started laughing and shouted,
'Mother, here I am!'
And hearing that voice sweet as a bell,
a young woman suddenly appeared there;
soiled clothes, a wealth of plaited hair,
body emaciated but graceful, with no ornaments
except its own native grace,
she looked the very embodiment of sorrow!
The moment the sage set his eyes on her,
they started moistening fast;
Perhaps his lips were shaping to say,
'What change has come over you, Menaka?'
But it was thus that he presently spoke:
'Who are you, my daughter, who is the mother
of this child with the distinct birthmarks
of an emperor?'
Meanwhile, that son, shouting,
'Ah! There in the hands of Markandeya [a playmate, friend]
is a painted clay peacock,'
leaped down from the chest of the rishi,
wriggled out of his mother's attempted hold,
and ran away in a desperate hurry!
Watching the sprint of her son, she heaved
a deep sigh and repressed her tears with
great effort, with folded hands, full
of veneration even surpassing it with love,
the good lady told the rishi her own story:
'0 liberated soul, I was abandoned in the forest
by my mother and father on the yery day I was born,
picked up and fostered by sage Kanva,
married in secrecy by King Dushyanta;
as for my father, he is the far-famed Viswamitra!'
'Me!' The maharishi was astounded!
0 rishi's daughter, it is your father
that is now speaking to you!
'Ah, yes! I remember; Menaka is your mother!
'Why do your eyes well with tears, you who have
crossed all worldly sufferings?'
'I am blessed by the sight of my father!'
The sage instantly raised his daughter from the ground,
as overwhelmed with happiness,
she prostrated at his feet:
he fervently kissed her forehead a hundred times,
brushed away her tears with his right hand,
while gently patting her back with the other;
and also inquired about the welfare of his son-in-law.
Ah, parental affection, even the ascetic who has
conquered all emotions is swayed by you!
'Darling, what is your name? Tell me, and the name of
your son?
Wherefore did you, consort of a great king
come into this forest?'
A voice sweet as the note of the vina
quivered out of the handsome woman:
'Father Kanva named me Shakuntala,
and thy grandson bears the name Sarvadamanan;
by my mother's blessing, this holy hermitage became
my lying-in chamber in the hour of my great sorrow!
When I was with child, I was sent from the ashram
by father Kanva, with his love and blessings;
and when I reached the palace--'
Unable to bear her grief, she wept. bitterly
for a while:
'I was disowned by my gentle husband!'
The aspect of that incarnate power of destruction
suddenly changed; sparks of burning fire
shot out of his eyes; his eyebrows arched,
the brow wrinkled; even the leaves stood still;
the wind ceased to stir anywhere!
'Who is this Dushyanta who dares to remain alive
after having flung my daughter into unbearable shame?
This one hand is enough to raise men to the heavens
in the fraction of a second and fling them
into hell!
Hasn't the king ever heard of the dire
experiences of Trisanku and Harischandra,
brought about by Kausika's prowess?
Lo! Let the world unmistakably behold once again
the dread spiritual might of Vishwamitra
achieved by dint of fierce penance:
Wicked soul, who, having espoused an innocent
woman on his own initiative, has now
heartlessly, causelessly abandoned her--'
The mighty Vishwamitra had started uttering
these words, placing his right arm clenched
in anger, on his breast--
that arm with which, after having forced Brahma
by the might of his penance to appear before him
in person, he had extorted from him the highest
honor--the order of Brahmarishi-
if only he were to fling it forward,
it would spell the end!
It will become the thunderbolt that would
annihilate her husband with his entire race!
Fully aware of that dread consequence, she instantly
clutched that dread missile of destruction
with both her hands and cried:
'Father, for my sake, forbear! Let not your
daughter become the destroyer of her husband!
Let her not be consumed by the fire of dire
widowhood!
Abandoned earlier by her parents once,
she has now been abandoned freely
by her husband too; that is all!
Let my life be completely destitute-
but let not my son too become an outcast
on account of my sin.'
The fire of his anger having been quenched
by the tears of his daughter,
the father, now feeling extremely happy,
commanded her:
'Fare thee well! Your goodness has pulled me
out of moral ruin;
May you, along with your son, soon join your lord!'
--Edappally Raghavan Pillai : The Bell Tolls, p. 789
Malayalam; tr. K. Ayyappa Paniker
The tolling bell! It is the sweet knell
Of the day of death! I am coming!
Let me say my farewell words
To friends who come to see me off.
0 comrades who beat drums
In their minds, hiding themselves in oblivion!
0 world that has no sympathy!
0 autumnal sky that joins me in everything!
0 golden quill, 0 sylvan scenes!
Close partners of mine in the game of verse,
0 cluster of trees thrilled to ecstasy
At my silent song, never so sweet.
1 take my leave now, one lowborn,
A lover born to lament.
Let this earthen lamp, love-bereft,
Lie down lifeless, cast in the sand!
The graceful garden ground of life,
The camp of repose on the way,
The scaffold that keeps this body for the hawk-
Ah, I was drawn into it for a while!
In this mansion whose beauty is enhanced
By plastering grief with a touch of joy.
If you raise your foot a bit,
You are sure to slip and fall.
Drenched in the song of simple joy
That comes from a myriad pleasant dreams,
Drunk with the honey of love
That fills and spills over every moment,
Drawn to the flower-soft smile
Put forth by those in friendship's garb:
So long like a raincloud
That keeps creeping up the hill
Have I soared high, swept off the ground
To fathom the depths of the billowy sea!
I have grown callous seeing bars of iron
Whenever I opened my eyes!
I am one who became a prisoner
Struck by the dearth of unbroken love!
The tenement rises to become a palace; -113-
The sea rages to reach the canal ;
If you try to unite the lovers,
Darkness will come to create a split!
The bell tolls! It is the sweet knell
Of the day of death- I am comingl
From this scene where in every laugh
There scatter the sparks from the pyre,
Good-bye, it is enough; let us leave,
Me, my dance and my mute song.
Difficult it is for me to sing
In myriad ways in one moment.
It has to reflect the nine moods,
It has to please each and all!
No, no; this is quite impossible for me;
Even if my life has to remain incomplete,
After the make-up was completed, for a while
I stayed in the green room in privacy;
I tried ever-new styles on many days,
But it was all to no purpose.
My mind crumbling to pieces for grief
Has to smile and dance in glee there!
My master smacked me on the head
Many a time to make me smile.
How surprising, alas, 0 world,
These lessons in dance are yery strange!
I shall now take the course in a different school;
I shall change the performing stage.
The drama of love cannnot but end
Without leading to this splash of blood.
The bell tolls! It is the sweet knell
Of the day of death! I am coming!
If there is a dawn again,
It will come to perform my obsequies.
Why should I, never separated, go on crying
For grief in this capricious world?
When thoughts of joy have disappeared,
It is death to go on living now.
How long can I go on crying at night
From my broken heart with none to care.
0 world without a heart, why should you
Keep asking for a reason for it?
A hundred thousand secrets have I
To sob like this from behind me,
To come flying every day as memories,
To deck my deathbed with tender mango leaves.
It is time for me, the lengthening shadows
Measuring patience, watch all along. -114-
Over the endless horizon circled by a coral line
All around, in the fullness of love,
Is the golden constellation of the Pleiades
Twinkling in glory to witness what I do.
Immaculate she is and so far away,
Yet is she always close by for company.
May the hard times to come never bring
Even a little pain to the glow of her cheeks.
Will every drop of blood
Dripping from my heart's broken walls,
Exhausted by the repeated batterings
Of the rough and rude rubble of insults,
Inspire the pen that writes love songs?
And if it does, will it bear fruit?
Contents
Foreword : B.K. BHATTACHARYYA v Publishers Note : INDRA NATH CHOUDHURI vii Selection Committee ix Preface : K.M. GEORGE xi Guide to users: pronunciation and transliteration : xxvii General Introduction : K.M. GEORGE 1
I. Surveys
Assamese : SAILEN BHARALI 55 Bengali : AJIT KUMAR GHOSH 71 Dogri : SHIVANATH 95 English : L.S. SESHAGIRI RAO 107 Gujarati : DEEPAK B. MEHTA 120 Hindi : R.C. PRASAD 144 Kannada : K. NARASIMHA MURTHY 167 Kashmiri : P.N. PUSHP 191 Konkani : MANOHARRAI SARDESSAI 205 Maithili : JAYAKANTA MISHRA 219 Malayalam : AWAPPA PANIKER 231 Manipuri : IROM BABU SINGH 256 Marathi : SUDHEER RASAL 264 Nepali : KUMAR PRADHAN 285 Oriya : JATINDRA MOHAN MOHANTY 297 Punjabi : S.S. KOHLI 320 Rajasthani : RAWAT SARASWAT 342 Sanskrit : K. KRISHNAMOORTHY 355 Sindhi : MOTILAL JOTWANI 364 Tamil : NEELA PADMANABHAN 378 Telugu : C.R. SARMA 401 Urdu : SHAMSUR RAHMAN FARUQI 420
II. Poems
Assamese
A Letter from My Sweetheart : HEMACHANDRA GOSWAMI 445
The Unconquerable : CHANDRA KUMAR AGARWALA 446
The Supreme Thirst : NALINIBALA DEVI 447
Two Poems: : DEVAKANTA BAROOAH [Barua]
Manoroma 449
And We Open the Gates 450
The Boatman Rows Downstream : JATINDRA NATH DUWARA 451
Silt : NAVAKANT BARUA 453
The Sea Scare : HAREKRISHNA DEKA 454
Jengrai 1963 : AJIT BARUA 456
The Setting Horizon : HIRENDRANATH DUTTA 457
The Laments of Darkness : AMULYA BARUA 459
Poignant : NIRMAL PRABHA BARDOLOI 462
Sound of the Flute : HIREN BHATTACHARYA 463
Lily's Afternoon : BIRESWAR BARUA 463
She Pursued Me. . . : NILAMANI PHOOKAN 464
(see bio at poetryinternational.org)
The Transparent Voice : BHABEN BARUA 465
Bengali
The Slaying of Meghanada : MICHAEL MADHUSUDAN DUTT 466
Hymn of the Auspicious Sarda : BIHARILAL CHAKRAVARTI 475
Four Poems: : RABINDRANATH TAGORE
The Golden Boat 480
Urvashi 481
Holy India 484
A Flight of Swans 486
The Rebel : NAZRUL ISLAM 487
I am ever-uncontrollable, rude and ruthless,
I am the dancing deity causing the world's doom
I am a cyclone, I am destruction
I am the Great Terror,
I am the curse of the world
I am irresistible,
I crush everything into pieces...
The Pessimist : JATINDRANATH SENGUPTA 493
A Prisoner's Adoration : BUDDHADEVA BASU 495
The Wayfarer : MOHITLAL MAJUMDAR 498
Camel-Bird : SUDHINDRANATH DATTA 503
Farewell From Heaven : SAMAR SEN 504
Invocation : SUKANTA BHATTACHARYA 506
(bodhan, tr. Subhas Sarkar)
Banalata Sen : JIBANANANDA DAS 509
On This Shore : AMIYA CHAKRAVARTI 510
For a Poem : SUBHAS MUKHOPADHYAY 511
Dogri
Milkmaid : DINU BHAl PANT 513
This Little Life : SUDARSHAN KAUSHAL 'NOORPURI' 516
Daybreak : R.N. SHASTRI 517
The Oil-Press : K.S. MADHUKAR 519
A Song : YASH SHARMA 521
The Raja's Palaces : PADMA SACHDEV 522
An Evening in Akhnoor : DHIAN SINGH 524
Two Peaks : CHARAN SINGH 525
The Black Man : VED PAL DEEP 527
Kindling the Latent Love : MOHAN LAL SAPOLIA 529
A Playing Card : NARSINGH DEV JAMWAL 531
I Too Am Not Apart : SARATHI O.P. SHARMA 532
English
Our Casuarina Tree : TORU DUTT (1856-77)529
Indian Weavers : SAROJINI NAIDU (1879-1949) 531
Savitri Challenges Death : SRI AUROBINDO (1872-1950) 532
Autobiography : DOM MORAES (b.1938) 543
The Exile: Poem No. 1 : R. PARTHASARATHY (b.1934) 544
Night of the Scorpion : NISSIM EZEKIEL (b.1924) 546
In Love : KAMALA DAS (b.1934) 547
The Old Man : P. LAL (b.1929) 548
Small-scale Reflections on a Great House : A.K. RAMANUJAN (b.1929) 549
Indian Women : SHIV K. KUMAR 552
Hunger : JAYANTA MAHAPATRA 553
An Old Woman : ARUN KOLATKAR 554
Gujarati
The Message at Death : NARMAD 556
Remembrance : KALAPI 557
Throw Open Your Temple of Bliss : NARSINGHRAO BHOLANATH DEVATIA 558
Taj Mahal : NHANALAL (Nanalal Dalpatram Kavi) 559
Conquest of Spring : KANT 561
The Last Goblet : ZAVERCHAND MEGHANI 566
As a Flower I Come : SUNDARAM 568
Humming : BALWANTRAI THAKORE 569
Jungle Solitude : RAJENDRA SHAH 570
This Leaning Sky Is Krishna : PRIYAKANT MANIYAR 572
Fragmented : UMASHANKAR JOSHI 572
Bombay City : NIRANJAN BHAGAT 575
An Age-old Mountain : SURESH DALAL 576
Sound Can't Be Dug : LABHSHANKAR THAKER 577
Mira Would Leave Your Mevar : RAMESH PAREKH 578
The Saffron Suns : RAVJI PATEL 579
Drought : SITANSHU YASHASOHANDRA 579
And I Remembered You : HARINDRA DAVE 582
Hindi
A Flower's Wishes : MAKHANLAL CHATURVEDI 583
Silent Solicitations : SUMITRANANDAN PANT 583
Saket : MAITHIU SHARAN GUPTA 585
Kamayani : JAISHANKAR PRASAD 597
Saroj: An Elegy : SURYAKANT TRIPATHI 'NIRALA' 601
Himalaya : RAMDHARI SINGH 'DINKAR' 610
This Is the Lamp of the Temple : MAHADEVI VERMA 612
Building of Nests Again and Again : HARIVANSH RAI BACHCHAN 613
The Facts Will Speak : SHAMSHER BAHADUR SINGH 614
The Night of Ravenous Hair : G.K. MATHUR 616
Freedom of the Writer : KEDAR NATH AGARWAL 617
Pets : PRABHAKAR MACHWE 619
Hiroshima : SACHCHIDANAND HIRANAND VATSYAYAN 'AGYEYA' 619
Brahmarakshasa : MUKTIBODH 621
Without a Body : B.B. AGARWAL 627
Aquarium : VIJAY DEV NARAIN SAHI 628
Expression : BHAVANI PRASAD MISHRA 629
The Last Testament : SHRIKANT VERMA 630
The Soldier's Letter : SHIV MANGAL SINGH 'SUMAN' 630
Kannada
Madalinga's Valley : MASTI VENKATESHA IYENGAR 635
Gods No More : V. SITARAMAIAH 640
Rangavalli : P.T. NARASIMHACHAR 642
Fog Over Madikeri : G.P. RAJARATHNAM 645
Golgotha : M. GOVINDA PAI 647
Reflections : D.V. GUNDAPPA 650
Dasanana's Vision Fulfilled : K.V. PUTTAPPA 651
The Jogi : D.R. BENDRE 656
The Festival of Dance : PEJAVAR SADASHIVA RAO 659
The Seven-Walled Fort : RAMACHANDRA SHARMA 661
Seat Me Not on Your Throne : K.S. NARASIMHASWAMY 665
Earth Song : GOPALAKRISHNA ADIGA 667
A Leafless Tree : V.K. GOKAK 672
The Transmigration of an Inchworm : A.K. RAMANUJAN 674
A Horoscope of Bombay : G.S. SinYARUDRAPPA 677
The Snake-Charmer Boy : S.R. EKKUNDI 678
The Two Banks : CHENNAVIRA KANAVI 680
Mother : GANGADHAR CHITTALA 681
The Three Faces of Mother : SHANKAR MOKASHI PUNEKAR 683
Kashmiri
The River : ABDUL AHAD AZAD 685
Freedom : GHULAM AHMED MAHJOOR 687
Six Rubaiyaats : MIRZA ARIF 689
To the Bulbul : GHULAM NABI FIRAQ 690
Helplessness : ZINDA KAUL 692
Six Quatrains : G.R. NAZKI 694
Naked Thoughts : AMIN KAMIL 695
Creation : RAHMAN RAHI 696
Night Watchman : VASUDEV REH 698
Daybreak : MOTI IAL SAQI 699
Candy and Artemesia : DINA NATH NADIM 700
Craving : G.R. SANTOSH 702
Dreams : MUZZAFFAR AAZIM 703
Konkani
Two Poems : B.B. BORKAR
Anklet Bells 705
It Is not Freedom Then 706
Flowers Galore : MANOHARRAT SARDESSAI 707
The Tamarind Leaf : RAGHUNATH V. PANDIT 709
Awaiting : BAYABHAV 710
Shadow : PANDURANG BHANGUI 711
In My Village : SHANKAR RAMANI 712
Fatigue : CHARLES FRANCIS D'COSTA 713
Annihilation : NAGESH RARMALI 714
The Earth : R.B. VELUSKAR 717
I Am Man—Ashwatthaman : P.D. PADGAONKAR 718
Four Poems : MADHAV BORCAR
Homecoming 720
The Wound 720
When I Rise 720
The Home 721
Maithili
To the Tree : SUMAN 722
Two Poems : YATRI
The Dilemma 725
Blind Life 729
Vow : RAGHAVACHARYA SHASTRI 730
The Milestone : MADHUP 731
The Call of the Battle Drum : ARSI PRASAD SINGH 732
Two Poems : APARAJITA DEVI
Before I am Annihilated 733
It Seems Deeply Perplexing 734
Ultimatum : KISUN 735
Chanakya : DINANATH PATHAK 737
The Vast Forest : RAJAKAMAI 744
Draupadi : RAVINDRA 746
Tell Me if All's Well with You : AMAR 750
I Like the Darkness Itself : BHIMNATH JHA 752
Malayalam
A Lullaby : IRAYIMMAN THAMPI 755
The Peacock Messenger : KERALA VARMA VALIA KOIL THAMPURAN 757
Two Poems : KUMARAN ASAN
A Fallen Flower 761
The Tragic Plight 765
A Lament : V.C. BALAKRISHNA PANICKER 768
Two Poems : VALLATHOL NARAYANA MENON
My Master 775
Father and Daughter 777
Two Poems : ULLOOR PARAMESWARA IYER
Hymn of Love 782
The Ornaments of Karna 784
The Bell Tolls : EDAPPALLY RAGHAVAN PILLAI 789
Manaswini : CHANGAMPUZHA KRISHNA PILLAI 791
The Master Carpenter : G. SANKARA KURUP 795
The Father Artiste : P. KUNJIRAMAN NAIR 800
Onam Singers : VYLOPPILLI SREEDHARA MENON 803
Africa : N.V. KRISHNA WARRIOR 807
When Ideologies Are Asleep : EDASSERY GOVINDAN NAIR 810
Vibhishana : BALAMANI AMMA 812
Manipuri
Solitude : KAMAL SINGH 816
To an Alien Bird : KHWAIRAKPAM CHAOBA SINGH 821
The Story of a Dustbin : TH. IBOPISHAK SINGH 822
Tanghkul Dog : N. SRI BIREN 823
Let Me a Poet Be : E. NILAKANTA SINGH 824
In the Land of Hell : Y. IBOMCHA SINGH 827
My Slate : L. SAMARENDRA SINGH 829
Mother Take the Tears... : A. MINAKETAN SINGH 831
At the Waiting Hill : R.K. SURENDRAJITSINGH 833
Marathi
Two Poems : BALAKAVI
The Month of Sravan 837
Audumbar Tree 838
Lost Blessing : KESHAVSUT 838
Two Poems : MADHAV JULIAN
Desert Wind 841
Devotional Song 842
Ever Young : ANIL 842
Night of Japanese Geomancy : B.B. BORKAR 843
Two Poems : P.S. REGE
Oh, To Be a Garment, Wet, Concupiscent 845
Vital Breath 845
Love-Song of the Earth : KUSUMAGRAJ 846
Listen to Me : INDIRA 848
Like a Women Enceinte, Fresh from Her Bath : B.S. MARDHEKAR 849
Triveni : VINDA KARANDIKAR 851
Today, Thirty-two Winters Are Past : SHARADCHANDRA MUKTIBODH 858
My University : NARAYAN SURVE 863
The Third One : ARTI PRABHU 867
Change : DILIP CHITRE 868
Two Poems : N.D. MAHANOR
One 871
Two 871
The Tree of Violence : N.L. DHASAI 872
Nepali
Beads of Devotion : BHANUBHAKTA ACHARYA 877
Two Poems : VIRENDRA
The Fair 879
The Birth of My Son 879
War and Warrior : AGAM SINGH GIRI 881
This Life, O What a Life! : HARIBHAKTA KATUWAL 884
The Earth, Flowers and Beasts : GIRMEE SHERPA 884
Oriya
Chilika : RADHANATH ROY 888
At the Himalayas: The Festival of Sunrise : MADHUSUDAN RAO 890
Tapaswini (Canto-IV—The Dawn at Valmiki Ashram) : GANGADHAR MEHER 892
A Prisoner Remembering His Native Land : GOPABANDHU DAS 896
Cosmic Form and the Image of Love : KUNTALA KUMARI SABAT 900
The Song of the Journey : BAIKUNTHANATH PATTNAIK 901
Two Poems : MAYADHAR MANSINGH
A Morning in Hemanta 903
The Soul's Beauty 904
Two Poems : LAXMIKANTA MOHAPATRA
Waiting in Vain 905
A Lover's Complaint 905
A Prayer : BHIMA BHOI 906
The Cherished Jewel : NANDA KISHORE BAL 909
The Poor Man's Hymns to Durga : GODABARISH MOHAPATRA 910
The Spring-time Letter : ANANTA PATNAIK 913
Autumn, 1958 : SACHI ROUTRAY 917
Harekrushna Das : GURUPRASAD MOHANTY 918
The Guest : RAMAKANT RATH 922
The Song of Jara, the Hunter : SITAKANT MAHAPATRA 924
Kuala Lumpur : SAUBHAGYAKUMAR MISHRA 926
Bairagi Bhoi : RAJENDRA KISHORE PANDA 928
Punjabi
The Vision : BHAI VIR SINGH 931
0 My Dear Land, a Hundred Thousand Benedictions : PURAN SINGH 935
Radha's Message : DHANI RAM CHATRIK 937
My Village Girl : MOHAN SINGH 939
Storm : DEWAN SINGH KALEPANI 940
Swallows in Autumn : PRITAM SINGH SAFEER 942
I Say unto Waris Shah : AMRITA PRITAM 945
A Bird from the Hills : ISHWAR CHITARKAR 947
How Can One Be Proud : TARA SINGH 949
Usha : BAWA BALWANT 950
Before Curfew Time : SUKHPAL VIR SINGH HASRAT 952
Plateau : PRABHJOT KAUR 953
Cards Lie Scattered : AJAIB KAMAL 956
I, a Paper Ravan : J.S. AHLUWALIA 958
Puran Speaks : SHIV KUMAR BATALAVI 960
The Nondescript : HARBHAJAN SINGH 962
Writing on the Wall : JAGTAR 963
A Cry, a Rebel Yell : SOHAN SINGH MISHA 965
After the Accident : RAVINDER RAVI 967
Before Memories Perish : JASWANT SINGH NEKI 969
Rajasthani
Seven Hundred Couplets in Praise of Heroism : SURYAMALL MISHRAN 973
Compassion : G.S. PADIHAR 977
Billows of Clouds : SUMER SINGH SHEKHAWAT 980
Beauty Alabaster : N.S. BHATI 984
In Praise of Songs : SATYAPRAKASH JOSHI 986
Two Poems : CHANDRA SINGH (Chandra Simhaw (Chandra Simha, b. 1912) , b. 1912)
Clouds 991
Loo 993
Famine : RAWAT SARASWAT 997
The Tide of Time : G.L. VYAS 'USTAD' 1000
Two Poems : K.L. SETHIYA
Wake Up 1002
This Body 1002
The Widening Gulf : NAND BHARADWAJ 1003
Shall I Die Again and Again? : RAGHURAJ SINGH HADA 1005
Sanskrit
Bhavani Bharati : SRI AUROBINDO 1006
The Caged Parrot : APPASASTRI RASIWADEKAR 1011
Mr Rod, the Messenger : RAMAVATAR SHARMA 1014
A Quintet of Welcome : KUMARAN ASAN 1018
The River of Poesy : JANAKI VALLABH SHASTRI 1019
The Earth Is Sleeping : G.C. JHALA 1021
A Handful Offering of Thorns : KANT AKARJ UNA 1022
Sita's Life : REWA PRASAD DWIVEDI 1024
The Waves of Recollection : T.G. MAINKAR 1026
Robbed of Everything : VIRENDRA KUMAR BHATTACHARYA 1030
The Aged Matron-Chronicler and the Child : V. RAGHAVAN 1031
Sindhi
Down Memory Lane : ABDUL HUSSAIN 'SANGI' 1035
The Poor Man's Hut : KISHINCHAND BEWAS' 1037
O Rebel : SHEIKH AYAZ 1038
Nation's Independence : HAIDER BUX JATOI 1040
Two Poems : LEKHRAJ AZIZ
My Mission 1042
An Ode 1043
Standing Tiptoe : HUNDRAJ LILARAM DURHAYAL 1044
Two Poems : NARAIN SHYAM
The Glow-Worm's Gleam 1045
An Ode 1046
This Merchant World : HARI DILGIR 1047
Sind and Sindhis : KRISHIN RAHI 1048
Remembering the Homeland : ARJUN 'SHAD' 1049
Male Prostitute : HARISH VASWANI 1051
In the Latter Half of the Twentieth Century : ANAND KHEMANI 1052
Face to Face with the Mahatma : VASDEV MOHI 1053
Tamil
Two Poems : RAMAIJNGA SWAMIKAL
On the Earth. . . 1054
In the Sky. . . 1054
Lyrical History of Nandanar : GOPALAKRISHNA BHARATHIAR 1056
The Parrot Cage : NAA. PICHAMOORTHY 1064
Offering in the Temple : DESIKA VINAYAKAM PILLAI 1066
The Curse of Widowhood : BHARATIDASAN 1067
Two Poems : SUBRAMANYA BHARATI
Bharata Desam 1069
Sight 1070
Let the Door Be Opened : KULOTHUNGAN 1073
Swordless and Bloodless : NAMAKKAL RAMALINGAM PILLAI 1074
Time : KAMBADASAN 1075
The Empty Heart : PERIASAMY THOORAN 1076
A Siren in Reverse : T.K. DORAISWAMY 1078
Just Think It Over : VALLIKANNAN 1080
Let Him Sleep On : KANNADASAN 1082
My God, My God, Why : PUVIYARASU 1083
Hast Thou Forsaken Me? Life : SHANMUGHA SUBBIAH 1085
Telugu
Patriotism : GURAJADA APPARAO 1087
Vine of Love : RAVAPROLU SUBBA RAO1089
Serving the Lord in Solitude : VENKATA PARVATISWARA KAVULU 1090
The Holy Place of Vegi : VISWANATHA SATVANARAYANA 1093
Graveyard : GURRAM JOSHUVA 1097
The Buddha's Exhortation to Nanda : PINGALI-KATURI 1099
(Pingali Lakshmikantam / Katuri Venkateswarrao - poet pair)
The Love of Radha and Krishna : TRIPURANENI RAMASWAMY CHOWDHARY 1101
Love's Glory : BASAVARAJU VENKATA APPA RAO 1103
National Histories : SRI SRI 1104
Shivaji's Lament : GADIYARAM VENKATA SESHA SASTRI 1107
The Solstice : TUMMALA SITHARAMAMURTHY CHOWDHARY 1109
Lament of Flowers : KARUNA SRI 1110
My Poesy : D. BALAGANGADHARA TILAK 1112
To Man Immortal! : ARUDRA 1113
Two Poems : DEVULAPALLI VENKATA KRISHNA SASTRY (bio)
Benediction 1115
Hope 1116
Song Sacrifice : MATHUNAPANTULA SATYANARAYANA SASTRY 1116
Two Poems : DASARATHI
The Birth of Unified Andhra Pradesh 1118
Telengana 1119
Age after Age : KUNDURTI ANJANEYULU 1119
Twinkling Anklets : C. NARAVANA REDDY 1121
Urdu
Three Ghazals : GHALIB 1123
A Ghazal : HASRAT MOHANI 1127
Lightning in Church : AKBAR ILAHABADI 1129
A Ghazal : YAGANA CHANGEZI 1130
Two Poems : MUHAMMAD IQBAL
Wild Poppy 1132
The Spirit of the Earth Welcomes Adam 1132
A Ghazal : FANI BADAYUNI 1133
Four Rubias : FIRAQ GORAKHPURI 1136
The Morning of Freedom 15 August 1947 : FAIZ AHMED FAIZ 1137
An Evening on the Far Side of the Wine Glass : MIRAJI 1138
The Paper Boat : BALRAJ KOMAL 1141
Robe of Sparks : ALI SARDAR JAFRI 1142
Beloved Son : MAKHDOOM MUHIUDDIN 1143
Compromise : AKHTARUL IMAM 1144
The Desire to Live : SHAHRYAR 1145
Travel Diary : N.M. HASHED 1146
amitabha mukerjee (mukerjee [at-symbol] gmail) 2012 Apr 20